


Just the Once

by Kestrel337



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Frottage, M/M, OT3, Other, PWP, public sex kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 19:06:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2121288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kestrel337/pseuds/Kestrel337
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Come At Once if Convenient comm on Live Journal.  Mazarin221B gave me the prompt "At least it's only the once." </p><p>There is no plot to this. None. This is shameless porn with almost no storyline what-so-ever.  Written in about four hours total with minimal editing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just the Once

**Author's Note:**

> I own nobody and nothing. I mean no disrespect toward anyone.

Just this Once

“I am NEVER flying with you again. I can’t believe...you...you’re a menace, that’s what.” John checked again that the overnight bag he’d slung over his shoulder hid the damp patch on his jeans, smoothed a hand over the back of his hair. Nothing to be done about the blush that stained his cheeks, or the bite-swollen lower lip. Nothing to be done about the smug bastard walking beside him, blissed out grin telling everyone who cared to look exactly what they’d been up to on their flight. 

“Don’t be ridiculous, John. You‘ll be safe from molestation on future flights. I told you, it was just the once. Not that you seemed to object terribly much when you climaxed.” Sherlock frowned at him. “My scalp still stings. You’re not usually so inconsiderate.” 

“I’m not usually trying to stay silent during the best blowjob - yes, alright, stop preening,- of my life. And as for inconsiderate, what do you call stroking yourself off all over my clothes?” They’d reached the taxi stand. John unzipped his bag and pulled out the jacket he’d stashed on top. Too hot to wear it, far, far too hot. But he could drape it over his lap. Not that discretion had been particularly the watchword thirty minutes ago, but extenuating circumstances and all that. He just thanked his lucky stars that Sherlock had gotten ‘taxi cab’ out of his system already. 

Arriving at Baker Street, he jumped out of the cab almost before it stopped moving, pulling out his key as he ran to the door. Let Sherlock pay for once. Seventeen steps, unlock the door to the sitting room...oh, it was already unlocked...stumble into the flat...yes, there. Home. All the smells; acrid chemicals, tea, the dusty odor of Sherlock’s library, and the spicy scent of Greg’s preferred shampoo. John let his arms drop to his side, closed his eyes and just breathed. Until his relaxation was interrupted by snorting laughter. He opened his eyes, and glared at Greg.

“He had you off in the plane, didn’t he? And himself, judging by the stains on your shirt.” 

“What? The shirt too?” John looked down at the tell-tale smears and groaned. “How, exactly, is this my life?”

 

_______

 

The answer, of course, was that Sherlock had found an online forum while investigating some case or another during the insecure early days of their triad. Somehow he had taken the idea that it was up to him to provide excitement and adventure; not such a stretch, given that it was Sherlock, but the ‘best places for public sex’ thread had lodged in his brain and that, as they say, was that. 

________

 

Mycroft’s Car (Custom Mercedes S-Class with privacy glass)

“I’m a bit old for sex in the backseat of a car, Sherlock. Even a really posh car.”

Sherlock pulled his lips away from Greg’s neck, grinning wickedly. Greg wondered if there’d been any way to phrase it that the other man wouldn’t have taken as a dare. 

“I believe this is evidence to the contrary.” He cupped Greg’s erection, then worked the zipper open and lowered his head to lap and nip at Greg’s neck, ears, jaw. “Just this once, Greg.” 

“Sherlock- mmm, yeah - no, stop. Wait. Sherlo- oh, god- this is -haaaa- a really bad- oh, that’s good- yeah, okay, just this once.“ Greg gave up his half-hearted protest, let his head fall back against the upholstery. The dark-haired demon wasn’t listening anyway, was instead unbuttoning Greg’s shirt with one hand while the other was thrust through the open zip of Greg’s trousers, dragging one finger torturously up and down Greg’s cock. The cotton fabric dragged teasingly over his nipples when Sherlock pushed the shirt slowly open to gaze, dark eyed and hungry, at Greg’s exposed torso. 

“We won’t reach Baker Street for at least another 15 minutes. I don’t plan on stopping.” His voice was rich and deep with promise, challenge, threat. 

“Uh...yeah, right. Not stopping. Yeah. Good.” Air. Air was good. Greg tried to draw a deep breath, failed as Sherlock’s index fingers slowly circled the head of his aching cock and one straining nipple. Then his hands were gone and Greg was panting, trying to slow his racing heart, opening his eyes only to see the long fingers working at the hooks and buttons of his trousers. He lifted up when Sherlock began to tug, slipping the trousers and pants down to his knees, skimming his palms over Greg’s thighs. Then it was fingertips again, stroking and tapping, slipping and circling, until Greg was whimpering and gasping in frantic desperation. “God! Sherlock, please! More, more more more, please, oh god, more.” 

“Hmmm.” A low rumble, but Greg thought he heard a burr of desire beneath the thoughtful tone. “No, not yet, I don’t think. Traffic seems heavier than anticipated. Another 10 minutes, at least.” 

“I’ll die. I’ll die, right here in the back of your brother’s car. And you’ll have to -ahhhh!- paperwork. Yourself. Something.” 

Sherlock had closed finger and thumb over his nipple, rolling and pulling, before lowering his head to tease with lips and hot breath. 

“All right, then.” It hadn’t taken long after that, Sherlock rutting unconsciously against Greg’s thigh while he knelt in front of the seat, working Greg with quick strokes and surprise licks over the tip. He’d never been a swallower though, of course not, so when Greg choked out a warning he withdrew his head and allowed the hot, wet mess to spatter over Greg’s chest. Greg was still boneless and panting when Sherlock gave a startled whine and stared in shock at his own groin. 

“Did you just…” Surely not. It’d been amazing, yes, but he didn’t think the sight of his middle-aged orgasm would be enough to…

“Yes. Urg, that’s uncomfortable.” He pulled himself up onto the seat, offended as a wet cat when Greg giggled. 

“Serves you right. God. I can’t believe you did that.” Greg sat up and began pulling his clothes back into some semblance of propriety. “I call dibs on the shower.” 

 

Service Elevator, Harrods

Sherlock pocketed his mobile with a grimace. “She’s not coming tonight. The shipment was delayed.” 

“Huh. I guess even handbag counterfeiters are subject to the whims of the weather.” John turned toward the control panel. “Back to the loading area, then? At least now we know staking out the elevator works.” When Sherlock didn’t answer, he glanced over his shoulder. The predatory look on Sherlock’s face sent heat prickling over his body. “Oh God. Service elevator, Sherlock, really?” 

“Just this once, John.” He let the Belstaff slide heavily off his shoulders. 

“Yeah, no, really. Security cameras, right? Don’t fancy being the next youtube sex video, thanks.” 

“Think, John. The switch is made here, therefore there are no security cameras.” He reached over and opened the inner gate a few inches. “The car won’t move if the inner gate is open, so there is no chance that we’ll be disturbed.” He pinned John with a hungry look. “That cologne you sampled has been distracting me all evening. I find that it suits you-” he drew a deep inhale “-mmm, yes, quite well indeed.” 

John knew he was being manipulated, knew Sherlock had dropped his voice into the throbbing purr of arousal deliberately, but damn if his body didn’t overrule his head. Again. 

“Yes, alright, fine. Just this once.” 

Sherlock pulled his jacket off and leaned over to plunder his mouth in a scorching kiss, cradling John’s head in his hands. John, for his part, fumbled open both pairs of trousers and released their erections. 

“Wait. Wait.” Sherlock disengaged, took a cautious step over their coats, and fished in the pocket of his flapping trousers for a moment before offering John a packet of lube. 

John barked out a laugh and accepted the sachet, ripping it open and coating his blunt fingers. “Came prepared, did you? For any investigative eventuality?” He stepped forward, crowding Sherlock against the wall. “Bend your knees a bit...there.” Once they were aligned, he wrapped his fingers around both cocks and began rolling them against each other. “Eyes on me, love. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it my way.” 

Sherlock’s veridian gaze locked onto John’s face, reading affection, amusement, and desire in the darkening eyes, the quirking lips, the flared nostrils. “John. John.” 

“Yeah, that’s it. No, keep your eyes open.” He sounded strained, beneath the commanding tone. “Sherlock. OPEN YOUR EYES.” His hand slowed, threatening to stop altogether, until Sherlock’s eyes were on his again. “That’s right, good. God, you feel so good. Feel how hard you make me.” His hand squeezed them together, hot flesh to flesh, slipping and sliding against each other.

Sherlock’s hand came up, tried to link with John’s, was batted away. “Nope. My turn. My way, Sherlock, or not. At. All.” He punctuated his words with quick flickering twists of his wrist, wringing a whining moan from both of them. 

“John.” Sherlock’s hips twitched convulsively. 

“Oh, like that, is it? Right, then.” John brought his other hand up, joined them into a loose circle around both their pricks. He began thrusting his own hips, and Sherlock quickly fell into a matching rhythm. They were both panting, now, bumping and sliding against each other in the ring of John’s hands. John’s eyes were intent on Sherlock’s, holding him captive. 

“John. John! I’m going to...oh, God, John.” His head began to tip back, but John cracked out another command.

“Eyes. On. ME.” 

The ferocity in John’s voice tipped Sherlock over the edge. He was uncharacteristically silent as he spurted over John’s fingers where he still worked them together. John held his gaze with an intensity that burned, a refining fire that burned out anything that wasn’t John, John, John. And then John was gasping through his own climax, hips stuttering and slowing and finally collapsing onto Sherlock’s chest before sliding down onto the piled coats. Sherlock eased himself down next to John, finally closing his eyes while his breathing steadied. Only once his heart rate resumed something approaching ‘calm’ did he dare glance over at the other man. Their eyes met and the broke into giggles, standing up and fastening their clothes. John looked mournfully at the mess on his jacket, then shrugged philosophically and used a dry patch to wipe his hands. 

“Good thing it’s my week to do the laundry, then.” 

 

______

And so things went, Sherlock having his way (usually) with one or the other of them (never both, they noticed, that was saved for at home) in various inappropriate locations. A broom cupboard at the morgue, the empty flat at 221A (John is pretty sure Mrs Hudson didn’t know), a store-room at Madame Tussauds, a wide-ranging number of back alleys and rooftops. Never the same place twice. They began to dread the words “just this once” with a delicious anticipation that they never actually verbalized, just communicated with raised eyebrows, shrugs, and knowing smirks. Whatever Sherlock was playing at, neither John nor Greg was exactly complaining. 

It might have continued thus indefinitely, except John got a bit drunk one night while watching the game with Greg. Anyway, that was the excuse they both would give if anyone asked. Not that anyone would, because they didn’t plan on getting caught.

The London Eye was out: CCTV cameras in every pod, not to mention the visibility from one cabin to the next. 

Greg suggested that he could call in some favours and get them into the Crime Museum after hours, but John pointed out that they were after causing a different sort of excitement and suggested he save that for Sherlock’s birthday. Touring the Magnificent Seven was likewise dismissed as being the wrong sort of surprise. Sherlock hated police cars and the tube. The emirates air-line gondolas didn’t take long enough, and a themed hotel was...well, a bit tacky, most of them. The actually debated a sleeper-cabin on a train, but in the end decided that going to Scotland was probably a bit of an extreme solution to their problem. Finally, Greg said, “look, we’re going about this wrong. The whole idea is the surprise of it. How about we just, you know, strike when the chance presents itself?”

“Hmmm. Yeah, that works.”

 

_____

Opportunity struck in a bizarre robbery at a high-end hotel on Greg’s day off. The responding officer had called in Sherlock, and John had texted Greg that their moment might well be at hand.  
Sure enough, the crime was quickly solved (‘boring, don’t bother me next time’), and John was left chasing Sherlock into the hallway. The consultant was brought up short by the site of Greg, grinning mischievously at him. “What are you doing here?” Then John caught him around the waist, Greg produced a key-card, and together they herded him into an empty suite. 

“Getting back a bit of our own, isn’t that right, John?” 

“Oh, absolutely.” John was pushing back the heavy draperies that covered the full length windows. He looked at the chaise, measuring up the potential, then back at Sherlock. “Strip.” 

“What?” 

“You heard me. If I have to say it again there will be consequences.” 

Greg chuckled behind him. “I know that tone.” His voice was low and liquid. “Best do as he says, love. John, do you want me naked, too?” 

“Nope. This isn’t about us.” 

Sherlock’s eyes flickered between them, calculating, observing. John quirked an eyebrow at him, and he began slowly taking off his jacket. His hands, he noticed, were shaking ever so slightly, as he began unfastening the buttons of his shirt. John noticed too, and said seriously, “We’d like to try something, just this once. But you can always say no. Any time.” 

“I’m not saying no.” He unbuttoned the cuffs and peeled the shirt away, then started on his belt. “I won’t say no.” Shoes were toed off, trousers and pants shucked away, and he stood before them, arms out to his sides, slim and pale and oh, so gorgeous. Half-hard, too. John stepped into his space, taking hold of his elbows and walking him backward to the chaise. 

“Sit. Legs apart. Greg, come over here.” John knelt before him, began lipping and kissing at his ankle, up over his calf, tongue tickling the back of his knee, before turning his attention to Sherlock’s other leg. Greg knelt on the lounge and leaned over Sherlock’s reclining form, adjusting the pillow at his back before going to work on his neck. Hot kisses over his arms, each finger gently suckled. John’s mouth, licking and nibbling over his knees, breathing over his thighs. Sherlock whimpered, turned his head away from the vision of John’s blond head between his legs. The window looked out over other rooms, and other rooms overlooked theirs. On one balcony, he could see a couple reading and sipping coffee together. If they cared to look, they’d be treated to the sight of Sherlock, spread naked over golden upholstery, and his still fully-clothed lovers taking him apart with only their lips and tongues. An electric thrill raced through him at this thought, or maybe it was because John was nipping at his inner thighs while Greg flicked his tongue over a suddenly taut nipple. He grabbed at their heads, slid his fingers through the coarse silver and soft blond. 

John pulled away when he felt Sherlock tugging at his hair. “Huh-uh. Hair pulling is bad manners. Hands, Sherlock. Over your head. Keep them there.” He waited until Sherlock obeyed, then turned to Greg. “Come down here. Get under his other leg.” They shifted and lifted, arranging Sherlock’s limbs so that one leg was over each of them, their arms draped over his thighs to hold him in place. Their eyes met; John raised an eyebrow and Greg nodded. Then their mouths descended, sliding down each side of his erection in a rush of wet heat. Sherlock’s head fell back with a wordless cry, his hands clenched together in an effort not to grab and tug. It was sloppy, messy, uncoordinated, tongues flickering against him, against each other, hot breaths gusting over him. His hips strained up against their arms, but he was pinned and completely at their mercy. Sherlock could no longer tell where one mouth ended and the other began, knew only that someone was licking and sucking at his sac while someone else pressed the flat of his tongue to the underside of Sherlock’s cock and worked it in quick, tiny pulses. 

Then they were back together, sealing their lips around him, one sliding up while the other went down, and he was keening into his own bicep. Pressure coiled at the base of his spine, sparks racing through his veins to join the heat pooling low in his abdomen. He gasped, thinking to warn them so they could pull away, but they pulled their heads together, kissing and sucking at him, at each other, moaning and licking and then Sherlock was sobbing through his orgasm, spending himself across their waiting tongues, his vision whiting out for long moments until he raised his head and looked, and oh God, they were kissing his release from each others faces, tender and gentle, and then they were looking at him, smiling, carefully slipping out from under his legs and leaning their heads on his thighs. 

He waited, wondering who was going to be the first to speak. 

“That...that was amazing.” Huh. Apparently, it was him. But really, amazing? What a ridiculous word. He searched his brain, but no alternatives appeared. John stood, walked the half-mile across the suite to the bathroom, and returned with a wet flannel. He handed it to Sherlock, then pulled Greg up off the floor. 

“Liked that, did you?” Greg smirked.

Sherlock struggled to a more upright position but made no move to clean himself up. “How are you standing up? I can’t feel my legs.”

“I think we broke him.” John giggled. 

“Broke? You damn nearly killed me. Anything more like that and you WILL.” 

“Hmm. Well, then it’s a good thing it was only this once.”


End file.
